Primacy
by Rahuratna
Summary: A sinister change in the essence of shadow magic and a deadly plague leads Seth on a perilous journey to Nubia. Shadowing him closely, Bakura must choose between pride and desire for power as they fight to unravel a conspiracy that could destroy them both
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Yugioh, or any Yugioh character portrayed in this fic!

**A/N: **This fic has been re-posted due to some technical problems when Sirensbane transferred this to my account, as followers of the story might have read in her profile. Due to Sirensbane's deleting of her fanfiction account (due to personal reasons), I will now be taking over the writing aspect. It must be noted that although this is posted under my account, the story is a** fully collaborated effort**, with all ideas and excerpts done by both the excellent writer Sirensbane and myself. I hope I can do this story justice! Reviews and feedback appreciated :)

**Primacy**

**Chapter 1**

The marketplace of Thebes! Raucous, vibrant, colourful and as abrasive as a newly formed bruise. The sun beat down on the canopied stalls and _shora_ protected heads, releasing strong smells of sweat, animals, rotting vegetables and overripe fruit while the wind whipped sand into every crevice, every fold of cloth, sweeping against exposed skin with elusive glee. Seth, High Priest and advisor to his Highness, the Pharaoh of Egypt was confronted with this plethora of life, reek and energy the moment he led his retinue of soldiers and healers into the central square. Tilting his head back, he inhaled sharply once or twice to accustom himself to the thick atmosphere.

A unanimous awareness passed through the crowd as they pointed, stared and conversed behind dusty hands, parting to form a barely navigable path for the travelers. As exhausted from the long journey as he was, Seth took the time to examine the faces dotting the audience forming their unofficial welcoming party. He read concern, fear, confusion, even an element of anger. _How many know already? How long before they panic?_

They entered the residential area and his bright gaze moved over the open bonfires, dark smoke rising from congealed embers, where the shawled and robed women sweated over huge copper pots, the dusty streets where ragged children ran about, waving sticks and flinging stones, upwards to the balconies laden with washing and clay pots of all sizes. _How many of these houses will soon stand empty?_

The men making up his train were solemn-faced, bearing his mood like an almost perceptible standard. There was no need for speech after the things they had seen, the places they had traveled through. The journey had taken them all the way down the Nile, to the border and back. The Southern Empire had far less luck than themselves. _But it is spreading_

Some said it was a disease brought in with the traders from the East, a plague born of the dense jungles of Harappa, some said it was blown in with the strong storm winds off the coast and yet others whispered of Shadow magic and the displeasure of the Gods. _They fear what they do not understand. Shadow magic has protected this land for many ages past. Possibly it is time to show them more, to rid ourselves of this veil of secrecy. If the disease _is _caused by Shadow Magic… _

And yet, in every city, every town, every farmhouse he had seen on his travels that had been affected by the pestilence, he did not sense any traces of Shadow Magic. Could it truly be a disease brought in by travelers and traders from distant countries? Seth was versed in certain elements of healing, having studied as a scribe and later serving for a year in the infirmaries as a record keeper. This was like no illness he had ever encountered before.

Curious eyes and hushed voices followed the returning train as they passed on, the walls of the palace looming ahead, bright as a shining beacon.

* * *

><p>"Unless we do something soon, my Pharaoh, I fear that thousands will die."<p>

Atem bowed his head in thought as Seth summed up their long, closeted conference.

"Then I believe we have no choice."

Seth paused, and Atem sensed his desire to say something further. "Pharaoh, if we but bring greater awareness to the people of how our power and Shadow Magic protects this land . . ."

"Impossible!" interrupted Akunadin sharply, "Seth, you know not of what you speak. Our dynasty has kept the secrets of our ancestors for ages past. This _idea_ of sharing knowledge," he turned to address the rest of the assembled priests, "is the reason that outlaws such as the Thief are allowed to roam this land, twisting the Shadow craft to their own heinous means!"

"Priest Akunadin," overrode Seth, "I am fully aware of the implications. But I did _not_ suggest that we impart details of our power to the people, I merely propose that we educate them in the signs that Shadow Magic leaves and how to avoid possible contact with cursed items or areas. We must do everything in our power to prevent a panic."

"I will consider both your arguments," said Atem, raising a placatory hand, "I must commend you, Seth, on the zeal which you continuously display in the protection of our people. But, Akunadin, as you have stated, these secrets have been kept for centuries. At the same time, the people's safety is the prerogative for using Shadow Magic in the first place. Thus, it is fair that we inform them of the true danger, give them ample opportunity to prepare and give them indications of the things that might pose a hazard. But I cannot condone the preparation of sensors. A skilled shadowmancer would be able to pick such an article apart and lure others, including members of this council, into further danger." He sighed. "I will meditate on this further."

Afterwards, only finer details of organization were finalized, leaving a disconsolate High Priest to pace the palace halls to his chambers. _Progress is made through risk, experimentation. Success is not guaranteed, but how can we not take that chance? _

At that moment, an explosion rocked the very ground on which he stood, plaster and mortar raining down from the ceiling in a shower on his headdress and sending him to the floor. Startled, Seth reached out to the Shadows. They responded eagerly, their soft hissing turning to a whine of anticipation in his Shadow-tuned ears.

_No…_

Seth scrambled upright as the Shadow's whine turned into a fully-fledged shriek.

_No…_

And then he was running.

In the royal gardens, the tendrils of Shadow Magic swirled in a hurricane of destructive fury.

* * *

><p>"How thoughtful of you to grace us with your Almighty presence, Priest." Bakura's raspy voice was unmistakable. He stood casually on the lip of the crumbled garden wall, smirking. Shaada lay on the ground before him, his clothing tattered and his face ashen.<p>

"Thief," Seth snarled. "What right have you . . ."

A bark of laughter interrupted him. "As a citizen of Egypt, I think I am full within _my rights_ to come pay my respect to the Pharaoh." He bowed to Shaada who glared up at him through the blood and grit coating his lacerated face.

"Enough!" The Millennium Rod materialized in Seth's hand as he fired a heavy bolt of Shadow Magic at one of the Guardian Tablets erected against the inner perimeter of the palace walls. Bakura simultaneously vaulted the wall, landing like a cat and rolling towards him, a deadly, curved scimitar carving a gleaming path through the air towards his head. The attack was blocked by a shimmering wall of energy which coiled around the tomb robber, cinching his upper body in a deadlock. Seth took advantage of this respite, dashing towards Shaada and slinging the wounded priest's arm around his neck as he half carried, half dragged him to the shelter of a marble pillar.

"Seth , I. . ."

Keeping his gaze fixed on his struggling opponent, Seth rested a placating hand on Shada's shoulder. "Hold still, reinforcements are coming. Don't move that arm."

The reptilian beast unleashed from the Guardian Tablet slithered towards the thrashing form of the thief, rolling sideways sinuously, jaws agape, readying to sink into flesh . . . and the ground beneath it erupted, a massive, roiling, spear-ended appendage crushing the smaller creature's body beneath its weight, the razor tip flashing through the air once more, impaling Seth's monster through the head. Seth let out a gasp of surprise and pain and staggered, ears ringing with unexpected agony. Blinking furiously to clear the black specks that danced before his eyes, he clutched the pillar for support. _What's going on?_

"Is that really the best you can do?" Bakura sneered. As Seth watched, helpless, the spear-like appendage flashed down again, severing the magical bonds rooting the Thief King in place. Free again, Bakura stalked forward. The scimitar glinted wickedly in the dim light.

The priest still clung to the pillar, and inwardly, Bakura snarled. _What fools, to think a few spears and arrows stand a chance against the might of my Diabound. You are truly no match. Quite frankly, I'm disappointed._

_And to think that I missed you._

"Fortunately for you," Bakura said out loud, raising the blade. "I don't have time tonight to play with you properly. Don't get me wrong; I'd love the chance to hear you scream…" Seth's eyes narrowed with fury. "But the way you're fighting, you're not worth my time." He looked at the priest disdainfully. "I won't even need Diabound for this."

There was the pounding of soldiers' feet on stone, and fifty of the Pharaoh's elite guard burst into the garden. The Pharaoh and his priests were on their heels, Shadows lunging forward with shrieks of anticipation.

_No! _Seth thought. _Pharaoh, his monster…_

Beneath Bakura's feet, the ground heaved, as whatever monster that lay hidden there began to rise out of the earth to meet the attack. Bakura smirked, crouching in readiness, and raised his sword…and then stopped. The ground fell still.

"Next time, Pharaoh," he said. "It's no fun if you die so easily."

Then he was gone, atop the wall before the soldiers had time to blink. Seth dropped his head against the pillar and closed his eyes, fighting tears of shame.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Yugioh, or any Yugioh character portrayed in this fic!

**A/N: **This fic has been re-posted due to some technical problems when Sirensbane transferred this to my account, as followers of the story might have read in her profile. Due to Sirensbane's deleting of her fanfiction account (due to personal reasons), I will now be taking over the writing aspect. It must be noted that although this is posted under my account, the story is a** fully collaborated effort**, with all ideas and excerpts done by both the excellent writer Sirensbane and myself. I hope I can do this story justice! Reviews and feedback appreciated :)

**Primacy**

**Chapter 2**

Seth was young.

In the end, that was probably the main reason that Shabataka underestimated him. It was also probable that in normal circumstances, the mage's slightly drunken demand for a Shadow Game would have been ignored.

But Seth, to whom the challenge was addressed, was in a foul mood.

"Be careful what you wish for, shadowman. It might come true."

It was incredibly and uncharacteristically rude. Shadowmen were considered little better than rank amateurs in the art of Shadowmancy, not worthy of the full title of Shadowmancer. Though it was doubtful that Shabataka was familiar with the Egyptian slang- a fact that kept the whole thing from immediately deteriorating into an international incident- the insult implicit in Seth's words was enough to make Shabataka's ruddy face go even darker with anger.

To Seth's credit, he immediately realized his mistake. "I apologize deeply for my rudeness, Shabataka," he said respectfully. "My mind was elsewhere, and that comment was severely out of line. I will, of course, make any recompense…"

But Shabataka would have none of it. "You think you can beat me, boy? Your tender years can hardly indicate any real mastery of Shadowmancy."

"Mage," the Pharaoh said, "the High Priest has apologized for his wayward tongue. Believe me," he added, glaring at Seth, "I _will_ chastise him. Do not let this incident escalate into something that would not be beneficial to both our countries."

"Don't try and protect your precious priest from this, Pharaoh," Shabataka spat. "I _will _have a Shadow Game from him, one way or another."

Seth's heart sank. _What is wrong with me? Am I destined to disappoint my king in every possible way? _"I will play a Shadow Game with you, Shabataka," he said in his most conciliatory tone. "But give me your word not to let our private quarrel affect our countries and our kings."

Again the man hesitated. "This will remain a private matter," he said reluctantly after a moment. "Of that you have my word."

The Pharaoh bowed his head. "Then so be it," he said heavily.

The entire court turned out to watch the match. Seth took up his position on one side of the palace courtyard, thinking hard about what to do. Beating the mage would be child's play, but _should _he win? If he threw the match, would it repair some of the damage done by his careless words?

But no. Egypt could not afford to look weak, not with its relationship with Nubia in such a state. He had challenged Shabataka with implications of power, and now he had to show that power. He looked up. The Pharaoh's violet eyes met his. To anyone who did not know him, he was expressionless. But to Seth, who knew his king better than anyone else and, incidentally, could _see _the Shadows swirling madly around his king, could read his anxiety.

_And I have to prove myself to the Pharaoh. I have disappointed him enough._

It would take no more than a minor monster to deal with this fool.

"Are you ready yet?" sneered Shabataka. "You can hardly expect to beat me if you stand there motionless."

Seth turned to him, and his blue eyes blazed with such force that Shabataka took a step back. "I am ready."

Then, without more warning, he called upon his magic.

Across from him, Shabataka's mouth gaped like a fish, and sweat beaded on his brow.

With a roar, Seth's cliff dragon erupted onto the field, its scaly hide impenetrable, its teeth easily the length of a man's hand. Seth reveled in the power of it, the Shadows that he had brought into this world and were doing his bidding. But there was something wrong…something off…something he could but lightly sense, a disturbance…

But there was no time to think on it now. Shabataka had finally managed to summon a monster, some kind of doglike creature that paled in comparison to Seth's dragon. It was almost a pity to destroy it.

Almost.

Shabataka screamed and sank to his knees, one hand clutching his heart. Seth's dragon reared back, ready for another attack, but there was no need. The dog thing had been utterly consumed.

"You blocked me!" Shabataka shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at Seth. "You prevented me from accessing my power!"

Seth was saved from replying by the Pharaoh, who had risen to his feet, his violet eyes blazing. "Enough!" he said. "You demanded this Shadow Game, Shabataka. You have no right to complain when you have lost." He turned to Seth, his voice once again neutral. "High Priest, you are entitled to choose his penalty."

Seth was wise enough to read the subtext. _Don't kill him. _He reached out with the Shadows towards the quivering mage, molding them to his purpose. The Shadows responded willingly enough, but there was still that trace of _other_, a trace of _wrongness _in the magic that he could not quite put his finger on. But he ignored it; losing focus now could have devastating consequences.

When the spell was over, Shabataka was whimpering on the ground, his face as pale as chalk. Conscious of every eye upon him, Seth walked over and stood over the fallen body of his opponent.

"If you ever prove yourself worthy of it," he said quietly. "I will undo what I have done."

Then, not looking at anyone, he turned and went back to the palace.

Behind him, Shabataka's shriek of denial rose into the air.

* * *

><p>A servant who considered himself above others of his own station simply because his duties included scrubbing the master's favourite tunic was always a subject of focus for Bakura's intense . . . dislike. There were those he hated and those he was indifferent to, nothing more, nothing less. And the specimen seated a few paces away from him in the rank darkness of the gambling den was rapidly talking his way into the former category. A heavy scowl formed on the thief's brow, concealed in the shadows cast by the heavy, hooded cloak. Oblivious to the animosity caused by his loud, obnoxious voice, the assistant to the priest Karim's manservant continued in this vanity-laden strain. The drink was taking its toll. Bakura could see several men eyeing the man's poorly-concealed money pouch at his belt.<p>

He turned his broad-shouldered frame as much as possible without attracting attention in the cramped quarters. Smoke curled from grimy, black-encrusted hookahs extending from yellow-lipped mouths, winding in varying, sinuous trails to the darkened, smudged ceiling above. The table he rested his elbows on was nothing more than a glorified pine trunk, splinters scraping his elbows with every small movement. A ragged, filthy curtain, once dark blue, now smeared with unmentionable things and worn thin to papyrus consistency, hung over a lop-sided opening in the right wall facing the entrance. The curve of a massive bicep was just visible when the curtain shifted slightly, giving away the presence of the hired body-slave standing to attention. His presence was more than accounted for by the heavy clink and chime of the coins that were being counted, collected and stored in the heavily guarded room beyond. Shadowy figures in varying states of intoxication and drug-induced torpor were sprawled gracelessly across long, low benches erected against the periphery of the room. The card tables were set out centrally, whores and serving girls wending their way through the noisy, stinking throng, receiving a lascivious pinch or hefty smack now and then.

Concentrating on his target once again, Bakura gradually tuned out the raucous shouts from the rabble, and onto the voice of the brash young man. The servant's audience consisted of a single, feral-looking man with protuberant eyes, who seemed to affect a strange nobility in his manner of speech and bearing despite the poor quality of his clothes. Humble Husseini. A con-man of some repute, renowned for his skill in swindling unsuspecting young nobles into false investments and travel opportunities. From what Bakura had heard, most of these young men ended up as fodder for the lions in some arena or other and Husseini made a killing in shady profit. And here he was, chatting up a manservant's assistant. Times must be hard indeed.

"The Pharaoh was furious. I overheard Karim saying so in the chambers, when we were serving wine." He held up three fingers, already shaking from the effects of alcohol, "Three cups of wine. I poured them for him, three, the finest quality brewed from here to . . . well from here to there, anyway. And he smiled when I poured. Great man, Priest Karim. He pays well and we get good square meals too. Just the other morning, he gave my master some stuffed dates and qu . . .qua . . . well some fat bird's eggs. Good man, Karim."

_Oh, get on with it, imbecile_, thought Bakura, somewhat admiring how Humble Husseini managed to keep such a submissive and attentive façade. The con-man in question nodded rapidly, flicking his fingers delicately free of his robe and plying the young man with more wine. This affectation of good manners was somehow negated by the deadly look he shot at the fingers inching towards the servant's money pouch on the right. The fingers were withdrawn. Humble Husseini was also Handy-with-a-knife Husseini, after all.

"The Pharaoh was so angry. That snob . . . that son of a jackal, High Priest. He was the one that got them all up in a stir. You should see him, striding through the halls. Thinks he's a Sphinx come to life, that one. Doesn't give you the time of day. The girls in the kitchen say he is very cour . . . te . . .ous, but I don't buy it. They probably take one look at his uniform and worship him. Huh."

The irony of this statement was not lost on Bakura. But he was now listening ever-so-closely.

"He challenged a foreign what-you-call-it. You know, the man that comes and shuts himself up with the Pharaoh and the Priests for hours. From a foreign country?" He peered blearily at Husseini for some verbal assistance.

"I believe the word you are looking for is Ambassador, young master. Here, more wine."

"Yes. Yes, thank you, you're too kind. You're a good man too. I like you. Anyway, that foreign big-shot came. Named Shagataba or something like that. He challenged the High Priest to a Shadow duel, can you believe? And this Seth, he goes and accepts! He even provoked the . . . Shatagataba."

"Indeed? How interesting. Here, move away from that beggar. Can't he see we're trying to drink?"

"Of course. Silly beggar, don't come where you don't belong. Don't come between me and my friend here. Anyway," and here the drunk lowered his voice conspiratorially and edged towards Husseini, "I think he was trying to make up for the other day. The day the Thief attacked the palace. You heard about that day? My master was watching from the balcony. He said the Thief was so powerful, not even the Pharaoh and the Priests could stop him. He said he got stronger. He said his hair grew longer too, maybe that's his secret. I would like to have enchanted hair, it must be nice." A reflective pause ensued during which Husseini poured more wine and Bakura oscillated between a desire to strangle the idiot or laugh at the ridiculous fancies the average mind came up with to explain his strength.

"The Thief crushed the High Priest. And here's the funny part. The Priest crushed Shabagata! But that foreign big-shot, he wouldn't stand for that. No. He insulted Seth. Said he cheated and made him weaker, or something like that. The battle of two sore losers. Hah. What a sight! But was the Pharaoh angry! My master walked near the royal chambers. They let him in and out. See how trusted my master is? And he heard them. The Pharaoh was letting the High Priest have it. Imagine his face!"

Much to Bakura's consternation, Husseini poured the inebriated servant another cup which proved to be his last. With a belch worthy of a camel's hindquarters, he tipped over, cracked his head on the side of the bench and stirred no more. Naturally, Husseini made no move to cushion his fall. Bakura was tempted to bargain with the con-man for the servant. No doubt valuable information on the palace goings-on could be gained. But Bakura doubted the accuracy of the young man's account, with the exception of the battles. His young mind was too clouded by self-importance and spite to provide an accurate description of the motives and emotions of those around him. And besides, thieves' code dictated that it was bad manners to encroach on the profit of another. Normally, Bakura followed no rules. The code wasn't meant for the King of Thieves anyway. Husseini was a respectable swindler in Bakura's book, however. He had subtlety and skill, a rare gift.

As he had learnt all he could here, he rose unobtrusively. Husseini gave a dismissive hand gesture and a burly, scarred man, obviously deaf, as his summoner continued to communicate in complex hand signals, slung the lifeless body of the servant over his shoulder and left the room. Outside, the night was humid and lifeless, the air hanging like a pall on the uneven rooftops, the curtain of silence now and again parting to admit a raucous shout or jeer from the shady dens that were the only places active at this time. The unsteady shape of the man with a body on his shoulder made its way further down the street, unaccosted. A shadow slipped down a narrow alley. In the gambling house, Husseini tossed the money-pouch once into the air and caught it deftly, satisfaction clear in his glittering eyes.

* * *

><p>"Is <em>this <em>how you would serve my kingdom? By playing the fool and threatening it with ruin?"

"Pharaoh, I…"

"Do you have _any_ understanding of what you've done? Do you realize how close you've brought me to war?"

"…"

"What, _now _you are silent?"

"There is no excuse for my actions, Pharaoh. I will accept my punishment."

"No. I will not allow you the coward's way out. You _will _offer me an explanation. You are not a man who is ruled by his emotions, Seth."

"I cannot explain."

Sigh. "Seth, this will not escape public attention. The entire court was witness to it."

"Pharaoh, I . . .I shall take whatever penance you deem fit as punishment for my folly. The people's awareness makes no difference, I shall make amends . . ."

"Their awareness makes no difference? Do you think that they will not attach their own significance to this? Do you think they will not remember that just a few days ago we were attacked by . . ."

"That had NOTHING to do with this!"

Silence.

"My Pharaoh, I apologize. I . . ."

"That is enough. When you are capable of rational thought and can place your duty over your pride, return to me."

"Pharaoh, I . . . very well. I shall leave you."

"Seth."

"My king?"

"The thief is our enemy. And a formidable one. We do not need any more, neither do we need to make foes out of our allies . . . and friends. Do not disappoint me again."

"Yes. Yes, my Pharaoh."

"Go."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Yugioh, or any Yugioh character portrayed in this fic!

**A/N: **This fic has been re-posted due to some technical problems when Sirensbane transferred this to my account, as followers of the story might have read in her profile. Due to Sirensbane's deleting of her fanfiction account (due to personal reasons), I will now be taking over the writing aspect. It must be noted that although this is posted under my account, the story is a** fully collaborated effort**, with all ideas and excerpts done by both the excellent writer Sirensbane and myself. I hope I can do this story justice! Reviews and feedback appreciated :)

**Primacy**

**Chapter 3**

It should have been a routine theft for _him_. True, the defenses had been a little more . . . severe than usual, but nothing he shouldn't have been able to deal with. Try as he might, he still could not fathom what power on earth could possibly have rendered him so utterly helpless.

Tossing the bloody, sodden rag aside, he snarled and overturned the basin of tepid water on the small wooden stand before him. His reflection glared back from the grimy, scratched glass, cracks in the mirror surface refracting the dim rays of the sun, casting his image back in nightmarish relief. The scarlet-tinted water pooled around his slippers before seeping through the rickety floorboards, leaving a dark, damp stain in its wake.

He examined his chest. Three long, angry red gashes scored across his left side, starting just below the breast bone and curving downwards, tapering along the ribcage. He had already applied the horribly-scented unguent as directed at the black market apothecary. The harsh sting of infection had made his dark skin puffy and inflamed. A sorry sight indeed. Another momentary flash of rage darkened his gaze and the fragile wooden stand splintered under the force of his descending fist. There was a shriek from the next room and an angry thump against the adjoining wall.

He had been too anxious, dare he admit it, to try again this soon. But something about this whole situation, the manner in which he had to flee, the sordid lodging house he had had to hole himself up in, the poverty of his surroundings and that damnable whore and her customer next door . . . his gorge rose and with it, his volatile temper. A blast of Shadow Magic erupted from his palms, rising, snaking its way through the dusty air of the room. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, feeding on the rage that burned, that _festered_ within his soul in every waking moment. His hatred was untouched, as strong as it always had been. It was the Shadow Magic that was fueled by this emotion that was . . . wrong. Infiltrated by something. Oh yes, it worked wonderfully now, but he knew the helplessness, the outrage, the fury he had felt when it had been so simply . . . blocked. Momentary, but it had cost him. Eyes opening, he vowed that he would never allow himself to experience such humiliation again. He would seek answers, and he had a pretty good idea of where to start.

Bakura kicked aside the basin on his way to the door and it rolled, clattering noisily against the wall, earning himself another obscenity-laden tirade from the interrupted couple in the adjoining room. The Shadow Magic, welling so near the surface, burst free. The screaming that followed him down the staircase brought a very, very small smile of satisfaction to his face.

* * *

><p>It was a little clearer, when he thought back to every event that had occurred before the theft and afterwards. He had watched, prepared, scouted thoroughly before he had made his entrance. The rest had always come instinctually.<p>

His target was the wealthy household of the jewel-cutter, Dherawat. The house itself was deceptively built, a sprawling bungalow with an outer court for entertainment of guests and honored customers. Dherawat himself was a large, bearded man with a boisterous personality that belied the prodigious skill he possessed at his delicate trade. It also diverted attention from his ruthlessness in the business arena and in his dealings with those who did not . . . further his interests.

For the serious aspects of his business, the inner courtyard and the below-ground levels were the hubs of activity. Dherawat had four employees, all highly skilled and answering only to his orders. One of these was Bahiti, the accomplished, seductive young wife of Dherawat himself, who, if servant's gossip was anything to go by, was just as unscrupulous and cruel as her husband. She was entrusted with handling Dherawat's accounts.

Bakura had launched his scheme just after midday when Dherawat had left the compound for a meeting with a potential client. Some would question the sanity of breaking into such a place in broad daylight, but the thief knew that this was the only time Dherawat stepped out of his home and that the guard underwent a duty shift a few hours later. They would be sluggish and unobservant after their mid-morning meal.

There were no watchdogs in sight, strangely enough. This should have given him warning, when he thought back on it, but at the time he merely marked their absence and moved on. He had dressed as one of the delivery men, draping his broad shoulders in a loose, misshapen, hooded coat and hunching over under the weight of a heavy basket of iron ingots. He had stolen a permit for the compound from one of Dherawat's regular suppliers. This took the form of a small silver token stamped with the owner's family insignia while the silver was still soft after smelting. He presented it wordlessly to the guard at the entrance, feigning awe of the broad spear and polished headdress. The idiot country boy act had served him well often enough.

He was shown through with barely a glance and hobbled steadily over to the small smithy where the iron was melted down to form casts and the delicate tools the jewel-cutters employed in their trade. Inside, he dumped the ingots with a heavy clang onto the pile near the doorway. Despite the noise, he received no acknowledgement from the men working the furnace. Making his way casually over to the bench near the anvil, he scooped a few handfuls of potash into the basket and slipped out the back way. Holding his burden aloft, he made his way towards the entrance to the lower levels.

"Halt, what have you got there?" one of the guards challenged him.

Bakura stared up at him, mouth agape, displaying an artfully soot-blackened set of teeth. "Wha…?" was his eloquent reply.

"I asked what you've got there, idiot!"

The thief grinned and brayed an ingratiating laugh. "Ee . . . dee . . . ot. I say like you, idi . . . ot."

The guard snorted in exasperation and turned to his companion for help. The latter was picking at his teeth with a small, sharpened twig and merely jerked his head with a disdainful look at Bakura.

"It's only potash. Who's it for, donkey-brain?"

"Mas-ter Yussef," was the reply, carefully enunciated.

"Let him through."

Dismissed, Bakura climbed the dark, cool staircase to the underground workshops, grinning at how easy this was turning out to be. He turned left and made his way down the corridor, catching glimpses of Dherawat's other employees at work in their various chambers, completely engrossed in their duties and taking no notice of one poorly dressed, hunched servant. The guards stationed at each entrance did not challenge him, but scrutinized him and his basket carefully. Reaching the last workshop, he knocked softly and entered. Yussef, the cutter whose name he had obtained, was bent over a table with a pair of adapted magnifying lenses perched on the bridge of his long, hooked nose. He looked up and then back at his work, motioning with a hand for Bakura to leave the potash in a corner.

"I didn't ask for any more of that, boy," he grumbled.

Coming up silently from behind, Bakura picked up a length of linen and brought it down close over the old man's face, smothering him.

"No, worshipful Master, I didn't think you did."

It was at this point, upon reflection, that things went a little awry. He let go of the old man just when he stopped breathing, allowing the unconscious form to slump over the bench-top. And then he heard the clatter of running footsteps along the corridor outside accompanied by shouts.

_What?_

Stooping, he saw the talisman clenched in the cutter's hand: a security call. How on earth had he not sensed the magical pulse when he entered? Not wasting further time, he snatched handfuls of the priceless stones Yussef had been working on and stashed them away in his belt pouch. The sounds of the running guards were louder; they were almost at the door. Recalling the rough plan of the underground workrooms he had obtained through a week of observation and eavesdropping, Bakura knew that there was a rubbish chute through which the compound's metal wastes were ejected.

_Outside, to the left._

He pushed the door open hard, timing the swing. There was a muffled 'oomph' as it caught one of the guards head-on. Unsheathing the long knife strapped to his back, Bakura dodged under the swinging sword of the other, slashing across his opponent's belly. With the two guards on the floor before him, Bakura listened for the rapid approach of the others, but they seemed to have been called off. All the thief's senses were screaming at him, at the _wrongness_.

_Get out and get out fast._

Haring down the corridor, he tested his Shadow Magic. It leaped into flaming life on his fingertips, the raw energy uncontrolled. He sent a blast of it over his shoulder, creating a temporary barrier behind him. He usually did not resort to such crude techniques, but something about the whole set-up reeked of trickery and deception and he wanted to cover all potential directions of attack.

_How did I not sense the alarm?_

This perplexing question was one he was not given any further time to consider, however, for at that moment, the unpleasant grate of stone on stone greeted his ears. Realizing that the sounds were coming from either side of him, he sprinted a few paces further before spinning around, knife at the ready, the dagger concealed up his sleeve sliding smoothly into the grip of his free hand. Two shadowed alcoves had opened in both walls ahead. Within the semi-darkness something large moved and a strong, animal scent assailed his nostrils. A low growl echoed through the long, hollow space followed by a sharp, horrendous cackling. Bakura backed away as two shapes emerged from the left and right, slinking with slow, predatory intent towards him. The hideous laughter sounded again as they came into the dim light cast by the workshop torches and the thief found himself gazing past the luminous eyes to the spotted coat of a leopard and the hunched, tufted, misshapen form of a hyena. The absence of the dogs was explained; their presence would have made these animals uncontrollable and ferocious, even towards their handler.

Both animals were in terrible condition. Their coats were mange-ridden and covered in pus-filled ulcers from untreated bite-wounds. They were obviously starved, the ribs standing out like the stark spars of shipwrecks, their eyes filled with burning, loathing madness.

"Well done, thief."

A voice sounded from beyond the Shadow barrier he had erected, a woman's voice. His eyes darted for a moment to the slender, shapely form standing cool and collected, the features blurred and distorted by the swirling magic.

_The wife. Bahiti._

His gaze traveled from her to the floor where a slight depression indicated the pressure-triggered switch he had stepped on while fleeing. His mind raced. Yet another simple trap he had not detected. _Why? How?_ Surely his Shadow Magic had not failed him yet again?

"You've managed to get this far. You may die congratulating yourself," Bahiti purred. "Try not to give my pets indigestion." Her footsteps echoed on the compacted floor, light and unconcerned as she sashayed beyond his line of vision.

_Bitch. _

The leopard sprang first, straight for his throat. He blasted it back with Shadow Magic, but his attack was weaker than usual, that strange taint more noticeable than ever. Instead of immobilizing the raging creature, it merely knocked it back a few paces, spitting and snarling. The hyena had been waiting. With a strange, coughing cry, it launched itself at his ankle, the powerful jaws snapping as it tried to pierce flesh and shatter bone. He slashed at it with his knives. The leopard came forward again, jaws agape, the taut muscles in its forelegs flexing as it slunk to and fro, roaring and lunging in short bursts as it tried to catch him off-guard. Bakura focused his rage, the dark energy that pulsed within, channeling with all his might against the strange weakening.

_Diabound!_

The Ka beast burst upwards through the floor, its claws catching the hyena in the belly, flinging the creature through the air until its body struck the Shadow Magic barrier with an unpleasant sizzling noise.

_Finally, something that works. At least this job isn't a complete fiasco._

The leopard, in terror and primal fury, sprang unexpectedly at him, claws glancing off his chest, drawing three lines of fire along his ribs. Cursing, he blasted it backwards once again and Diabound's heavy tail wrapped around the creature's thrashing form, snapping its neck. He paused, breathing heavily, nodding in thanks to his Ka beast as it lowered its head and dissipated, the tendrils of essence clinging comfortingly to his form. He looked from the bleeding scratches on his chest to the overgrown, yellowing claws of the leopard, matted, filthy fur between each appendage, and grimaced. Untreated, the wounds from those would rot.

But if he were caught, infection would be the least of his problems.

Turning, he loped along the corridor until he reached the broad, rusty mouth of the rubbish-chute, crudely forged and hastily installed for the sake of convenience. Echoes of the clash of metal sounded from behind him; Bahiti had returned with reinforcement to recover, what she hoped, was his corpse from the workshop. Bakura ground his teeth. That harpy would get what was coming to her . . . but not right now. His hair was a sure giveaway as to his identity, and he would rather nobody recognize _him_, the Thief King, reduced to _this_. Swallowing his pride, he leapt, sliding down the chute, the rough surface catching at his clothes and scraping his palms. Bahiti's scream of rage followed him down.

The pipe ejected him outside the compound walls into a pit of slag and discarded materials. Covered from head to toe in sticky, blackened tar, coal dust and the remnants of someone's supper, his chest burning and stinging and his clothes in tatters, the Thief King had to admit that this was not his finest hour. Furiously, he dragged himself from the pit with the aid of a long stick, cursing under his breath, and set off towards the town at a fast hobble. With luck, he could steal a horse and gain advantage on the men Bahiti would surely send after him, although which horse would approach him in his current state, he didn't know. The main objective now was to find out exactly _what_ had happened to his Shadow Magic and _why._

_Outmatched. And by a Ra-damned woman, too._

* * *

><p>All in all, it was luxurious, this self-imposed exile. Magnificent columns rose into the air, studded with precious stones. The floors were cobalt tile, cool and beautiful in the heat of the day, and turned almost black by night. A lamp burned in a golden lamp stand, a hint of salt sprinkled on it to reduce the smoke. Its light illuminated the elegant carvings on the walls, many of them Shadow Monsters that could serve as his first line of defense against attackers.<p>

The chair in which he sat had been a gift from Pharaoh; it was sheathed in gold, covered in designs inlaid in ivory. Hieroglyphs ran up and down it: Seth's many titles, his triumphs in battle, his accomplishments before the court, and best of all, the names of all those who had played Shadow Games with him and lost.

"_To celebrate your victories, Blue Eyes," Pharaoh had said with a smile. Then he'd traced the high back of the chair with his fingers, and the smile had faded into something like regret. "And to remind you of your weaknesses."_

He had been writing, but the pen had fallen from his fingers, and he made no move to pick it up.

"_Is that really the best you can do?" Bakura sneered. _

He put aside the papers, reports from the Southern Empire. The plague was spreading. Hundreds more had already died.

_The spear-like appendage flashed down again, severing the magical bonds rooting the Thief King in place. The scimitar glinted wickedly in the dim light._

He paced. Back and forth, back and forth, the tile now very cold. He paused as he passed his cubbyholes of scrolls. In hope of a distraction, he reached for one at random, unrolled it, and read the first line, which turned out to be a proverb taken from the temple walls.

'People bring about their own undoing through their tongues.'

_The gods must hate me._

He forced himself to roll the scroll up calmly and put it gently in its place.

"_When you are capable of rational thought and can place your duty over your pride, return to me."_

Seth glanced at his bed, as beautiful and elegant as everything else. But one look at the ivory headrest covered in cloth and the dragon-clawed feet, and he knew he would not be able to sleep. He tried praying, kneeling before the little shrine in the corner of his room, but even the small statue of his namesake had no answers for him tonight. He refilled the dish of water and laid a portion of his supper, uneaten, before it.

"Well, well. Seems like someone is wearing the collar of shame."

Seth sprang to his feet, hand darting towards the Millennium Rod, but Bakura was prepared. All that the High Priest registered was a strong blast of Shadow Magic and the very solid wall behind him before the room lost focus.

When he awoke, the chamber was completely dark. Groaning, he lifted his head slightly, only to be assailed by a wave of nausea.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Something cold pressed against Seth's throat and the weight of his predicament came crashing down on him. A candle flared into life somewhere close by and he squinted up at the form of the thief. With some small sense of satisfaction, the High Priest noted the Millennium Rod still in his belt and the scorch-marks on the thief's scarlet robe.

Bakura scowled heavily and Seth focused on him, stilling the rage that was threatening to break through. He retained enough sense to know that he was at the disadvantage (a rather large one) and bandying insults about was not the way to go about things. Especially not when bound hand and foot with lengths of cord.

"What do you want? If it's another Shadow Game, I'm in no mood."

"Oh, how damnably noble of you!" Bakura mocked, raising his eyebrows, "Shouldn't you be in the Pharaoh's council chambers preparing for war right about now?"

Seth flinched at this, the shame flooding his mind involuntarily. The Thief King grinned.

"Unless you're not fit to bear the Pharaoh's badge of 'most trusted advisor'? Tut tut, such a shame . . ."

"Shut your filthy mouth, street rat," hissed Seth, his composure rapidly deserting him.

Bakura threw back his head and laughed heartily. "So rude, High Priest!" His broad smile morphed into a sharp-toothed sneer and the edge of the knife dug painfully into Seth's throat. "I'd spill your blood here and now for such insolence, but I need you at the moment."

"For what?" spat Seth. "You know that you can never wield the Millennium Rod and that I will never hand it over _under any_ _circumstances_. If you want to kill me, get it over with!"

"Oh no," muttered Bakura bringing himself down to eye level with the High Priest, "You won't escape your shame as some kind of martyr. In fact, I'll go so far as to say that I will leave you unscathed . . . if you give me the answers I want."

"Answers?" Seth examined the thief thoroughly for the first time, taking in things he had not seen before: the bruises, the lacerated chest, the frustration and worry the man concealed beneath his cocky exterior. It was funny really that he had learnt to read his enemy better than any other man.

"Shabataka," said Bakura, catching the High Priest completely off-guard. "Let's start with him."

"What?"

"Your battle with him. You blocked off his Shadow Magic. How?"

"Shabataka was an incompetent fool."

"_No_," Bakura hissed, leaning in closer, and Seth felt the prick of the knife and something warm trickle down his neck into his collar. "_You _don't believe that and you expect me to? What really happened?"

Despite himself, Seth's curiosity was growing, making it easier for him to conceal his anger. "Ran into some trouble, did you?" he remarked dryly.

Bakura hissed in rage and Seth found the knife replaced with the thief's iron grasp. Gasping, he stared up defiantly at Bakura's glowering countenance, the fury that danced in his shadowed eyes.

"Ask…nicely..."

"What?" Bakura snarled. Seth thought for a moment he might spontaneously combust under the heat of the Thief King's glare.

"Ask…nicely…"

The grip on his throat tightened; Seth saw spots at the edges of his vision. Then, without warning, the hand was withdrawn. Rage, contempt, hatred, and disgust all flickered across the Thief King's face in the dim light. "Oh _Great_ and _Honorable_ High Priest of the Pharaoh…" Bakura added an obsequious little bow. "Please answer your _humble _servant's questions," and here he lifted the knife, "Or I will most _humbly _slit your throat."

Coughing, Seth glared back, taking his time in answering. Bakura dragged the knife threateningly across the High Priest's cheek. Not that a little cut would make Seth talk if the priest was determined not to, but it made him feel better.

"There was something…_strange_ about the magic," Seth said. "Like it was…reluctant. What's it to _you_, anyway?" And then a surprising realization struck him. "Oh…"

"Shut up," snapped Bakura, "You know nothing."

"On the contrary, you imbecile, I know something."

"And what would that be?" hissed the Thief. This condescending bastard was really asking to have his throat slit.

"That there's something wrong with Shadow Magic."

"Be more specific, will you? Us _lesser minds_ have trouble grasping such abstract concepts . . ."

Seth could hardly believe this surreal situation; here he was, bound hand and foot in his own chamber, having a discussion with his sworn enemy about Shadow Magic. Instead of answering, he asked, "Is that how you got past the enchantments on my chamber?"

"Might be," said Bakura with a feral grin, "I've tried before, but today it was like you cast them on a bellyful of trade gin…"

"Is that so?" said Seth, arching an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're experiencing the same problems? I wouldn't have thought you had enough magical talent…"

For a second time that day, the High Priest descended into unconsciousness, this time from impact with the floor. Breathing hard, Bakura stared down from the priest to his hand and back.

"Oops."

He stood for a few moments over Seth's motionless form, cursing his own stupidity. Finally, he cut the cords binding the Priest's hands and feet, dragging the man's heavy form to the bed, arranging him there nicely in case a servant entered and raised the alarm. For good measure, he stole Seth's prized headdress and a few very valuable items from the priest's locked chest in the corner of the room. Casting a final vicious glance at the Millennium Rod, he exploited the weakness he had found in Seth's normally resilient enchantments and leapt out the window with a silent call to Diabound.

He knew the High Priest well enough to deduce that a fault in the Shadow Magic was not something Seth would leave without thorough investigation. He could easily make his own inquiries, but keeping tabs on Seth was an equally profitable idea.

He refused to acknowledge how much the thought of his failing magic unnerved him.


End file.
